


Heartbreak

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Mycroft, Dark!Mycroft, Mistakes, Most Dangerous Man, Oops..., What Was I Thinking?, Yet Another Thing John Was Wrong About
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short, very dark. Character death--funny but only in a very dark, mordant sort of way. John once more fails to deduce the truth and vastly misundertands the situation. </p><p>No idea where this came from. other than times spent trying to deduce what Mycroft looks like to John, and what John looks like to Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbreak

He knew Mycroft Holmes—had known the annoying, interfering, supercilious bastard pretty much as long as he’d known Sherlock. They’d met over a little bit of coercive intimidation—during which John had refused to be intimidated. They’d collaborated, occasionally, in Sherlock’s best interests, though John resented like hell Mycroft’s attitude that John not only didn’t know best, but apparently knew damn-all about anything, including Sherlock. They’d faced off—and the memory of that still rankled, now, years later, learning that even as John raged at Mycroft, Mycroft was playing him. Lying to him, evading him, leading him away from the actual situation regarding Sherlock and Moriarty. Lies—all lies and truths used to misdirect good old John Watson, eternal dupe of the British Government.

The one thing John could not accept—never really accepted—was Sherlock’s claim that Mycroft was “the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.” John had met Pashtun war lords and special ops warriors and drunk med students playing with scalpels and for that matter his drunk sister with car keys in her hand. He’d met cold psychotic killers—some of them before he’d ever met a tall, crazy stranger in the labs of St. Bart’s and been asked whether he’d been in Iraq or Afghanistan. He’d met Moriarty.

In comparison, he thought, Mycroft Holmes was small change: a puffed up little prick with an entirely uncalled for sense of his own superiority and manners that might be smoother than Sherlock’s, but which were, underneath the façade, not one bit less smug and condescending. He might have power—but he didn’t have strength. At best he was dangerous at second hand—deadly because of what he could have others do to you. Hell—he’d seen Mycroft Holmes pinned against a wall by Sherlock—a Sherlock stoned out of his tiny little mind, far from at his best. John knew raw recruits half Sherlock’s height who could have broken that hold. Mycroft had merely sucked air and stayed still, in obvious pain, unable to resist his little brother’s histrionic spite.

No. Sherlock was always a bit unhinged about Mycroft, and in this he was certainly dead wrong. Mycroft was a stuffed shirt, and not much beyond that. He might be clever, but he was cold, pompous, a bit of a bully… The only thing John admired in him, in the end, was his loyalty to his nation—and to his brother.  On those two things alone they could agree.

Which left him entirely unprepared for the day on which Mycroft determined that it was in the best interests of the nation and his brother that John Watson die.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with a schmarmy assumed regret John found unconvincing. “But your judgment is too reliably unreliable. Sherlock’s given you access to too many secrets, your wife has accidentally handed you a few more. And…Dr. Watson, in the end, it must be said: you bring out the worst in Sherlock, and always will. You're a dangerous addition to his already too dangerous life..”

“So what?” John growled. “I’m to toddle off into the sunset and stay well away from your brother? I don’t think he’s going to let that happen, do you?”

“Of course I don’t,” Mycroft said, drawing on his fine black leather gloves. “No. I’m afraid the sunset you’re headed for is more terminal. Truly, John…I _am_ sorry.”

John frowned, then laughed, incredulous. “You…you think you’re going to…” He snorted at the very thought of Mycroft Holmes managing to harm him. “You and what army?”

Mycroft sighed. “I don’t do armies, John. That’s your MO, not mine. No—I work alone, unless Sherlock’s available as backup. Even then… Some things Sherlock shouldn’t be asked to help with.”

He took a step forward. John moved, expecting to counter. By the time he realized he was wrong, he was dead.

Mycroft looked down mournfully and sighed, before drawing the phone from his pocket. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. It’s done. No—just come pick me up. And reserve all Monday. There will be the funeral, and I think it would be best if I took Sherlock home after. He’s never been good with heartbreak.”


End file.
